Violent Idiosyncrasies
by Amatsukami
Summary: When medical student Sakura is told to replace her colleague Sai for an interview with an artist, she knows that she's doomed. Being a practical person, she has little use for art. But when she shows up at his workshop, Deidara surprises her in more ways than one, leaving a lasting impression on the pink-haired woman's psyche. AU!One-shot, Dei/Saku, some language


Well, here I am - back from the dead. While my other fics are currently on hiatus, I decided that a little DeiSaku One-Shot was doable so...I went ahead an did it. Yay me!

A fair word of warning:  
-It's a total AU-fic, as it was written for a contest on a different site where pairings were given out at random. I quite like how it turned out though.  
-Age-change from 16/22 to 22/28 - that's what I had in mind when writing it.  
**-Bold** lettering signifies a POV-change! I don't do *~*~* and all that jazz.

Reviews are always much appreciated!

* * *

**Sakura**, at twenty-two, knew that her life would be ruined by art. If not by art itself, then by artists. And if not by artists in general then by a particular artist. A single artist, whose works were of clay and debris.  
It was not entirely his fault, she had to admit. She would never have happened upon him if left to her own devices, that much she knew for certain. If she were to blame anyone in retrospect, it would have to be Tsunade – her editor. Then again, if Sai hadn't fallen ill, thus forcing her to conduct the interview in his place, nothing would have happened. But if she was honest, she could hardly blame the young man for his illness, but if she tried hard enough, she just might be able to push the blame onto the tiny organisms that had caused viral infection. It was truly upsetting, to say the least, to be out of a culprit to direct her anger at. She sighed, running a slender hand through her pinkish locks.

It was a well-known fact that Sakura Haruno was not the least bit interested in the abstract emotions and vast interpretations that some admire in the arts. She was a hands on, practical, unimaginative sort of person. She was a second-year medical student at the King's College London Medical School, aspiring to become a doctor and thus excited by unusual things such as infections and the traits attributed to Staphylococcus. She wrote articles for Konoha magazine in the health and dietary categories to contribute to her limited funds. She breathed for hard sciences, the tangible and explainable things in life. She did not, however, know a thing about art. And she wouldn't have to, if her pale, socially inept friend Sai hadn't suddenly decided to become an incubator for Streptococcus bacteria.

Thus, you can imagine, her complete and utter lack of excitement when her phone had rung this morning, the shrill sound a herald of her destruction.

Sakura sighed. It was a rainy Saturday morning, one of those days on which she preferred to stay indoors, curled up with a good book. Thick, heavy drops fell from the sky, clashing against her window as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She was still dressed in her pyjama-bottoms and an oversized t-shirt, clutching her mug – nondescript white, with the words 'I'm a medical student, I need COFFEE' printed in bold black letters onto it – as she plopped down at the counter in her kitchen while her room-mate Ino prepared breakfast.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you, pig? What would I do without you?" she asked, her words still slurred from her brief sleeping interlude between study-sessions.  
The blonde girl smirked over her shoulder, flipping the most deliciously golden looking pancake the pink-haired woman had ever seen.  
"You'd probably lie in a ditch somewhere forehead, half-starved to death and sleep-deprived."  
It wasn't far off. She was a workaholic, addicted to success and quite frankly hardly took care of her physical needs. She hadn't been with a man in God knows how long and it was a miracle if she remembered to eat regularly.  
"Yeah something like that," she muttered as she accepted the plate handed to her by the buxom blonde wonder in front of her.  
Sitting down at the bar, she savoured every last bite of her breakfast – consisting of buttermilk blueberry pancakes with a side of crispy bacon – and occasionally moaning in delight. If she weren't straight, she would have ravished her friend right then and there just for making her breakfast. Sakura would have long since died of starvation if Ino wasn't around to feed her.

Suddenly, her morning tranquility was brutally interrupted by the shrill ringing of her cell phone. She would have to change the ringtone before it gave her a heart attack.  
Mouth still half full of pancake, she glanced at the display before groaning and picking up the call.  
"Sakura?!"  
She immediately regretted her decision when the gruff voice of her editor, Tsunade, reached her sleep-riddled ears. Holding the cellphone a bit further from her ear, she replied hesitantly.  
"Yeah, 'morning. What can I do for you?"  
"Sai's fallen ill," Sakura winced at the hint embedded in the statement, praying to God that it didn't mean what she thought it did, "He's got a one-time opportunity for an interview with that up and coming artist scheduled for today so I need you to cover that in stead." Oh bloody hell.  
Groaning, the unlucky woman rubbed her temples in annoyance.

"Really? Can't you ask someone else? I know absolutely zero about art," she tried hopefully but was quickly disappointed.  
"Nope – you're all I got. I'll text you the address and forward you Sai's prepped questions."  
"Fine – but I want my paycheck right away this time before you 'misplace' it in a pub in exchange for booze, alright?" Sakura caved, her tone dangerously close to insolence. She could almost see the twitch in her boss' lip at her words and a smile crept onto her face.  
"Careful, Haruno," the woman at the other end growled before ending the conversation and leaving the pink-haired woman to sigh in exasperation.  
"She's one hell of a slave-driver, isn't she," Ino grinned in amusement at her friend's predicament.  
"Yeah – when she's not gambling away company assets or stupefying her nervous system with drink, she's truly terrifying."  
And when the infamous, hot-tempered medical student Sakura Haruno cowered in fear – that was saying something.

Three hours later, Sakura rung the doorbell to a loft in the West End, rented out a man going by the ridiculous name of Deidara. What kind of name was that anyway? She had already pushed the button what felt like a million times but no one bothered to answer. Bloody artists and their quirks, she cursed inwardly before she spun around, ready to text Tsunade and head home, defeated. Before she knew it, she collided head first with something rock solid and was knocked on her arse on the steps to the front door of the no-show artist.  
Her blood was boiling and she yanked her head up to glare at the moron, ready to rip whoever it was a new one.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot," she cursed.  
"How about you take your own advice Pinky and get off my doorstep, yeah."  
The reply surprised her and her eyes widened as she looked up. Just who did he think he was?  
Scrambling to her feet, she tugged at her blouse and straightened her jacket glaring at the arrogant stranger.  
"Your doorstep?" Sakura inquired while she quickly ran her eyes over the male. His appearance was somewhat peculiar. Reasonably tall, fair-skinned and dressed in blue-jeans and working boots, a messenger-bag slung across his shoulders. His lean, almost boyish physique was covered by a cream knitted sweater. If it wasn't for the rainbow-coloured scarf around his neck that just screamed artsy and the high, half pony-tail in which he wore his long honey-blonde hair – he might had passed for boyfriend material. It wasn't however his looks or the black eyeliner around his teal eyes that irked her – it was the wickedly arrogant smirk on his features that really got to her.  
"Yep, Pinky. Why, got a problem with that?"  
She really didn't like his attitude. If he was who she assumed he was – the smart girl that she was – Tsunade would have hell to pay.

**Deidara** smirked as the girl's anger dissipated and turned to skepticism. He noticed that she gave her a quick once over. He returned the gesture – taking in her prudish appearance. A black blazer, white blouse and skinny-jeans – the girl's entire appearance just screamed goody two shoes from a suburban home in a sensible job. If it wasn't for that ridiculous pink hair – there was just no way that _that _was natural. Who had hair like that?  
"Yep, Pinky. Why, got a problem with that, hm?"  
He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her glare. She couldn't possibly be that daft. Did he really need to repeat himself?  
"If you live here – then you must be Deidara," she deducted and he rolled her eyes.  
"Obviously, yeah. Can I help you with something love, hm?" He offered sarcastically as he pushed her aside to unlock the door.  
"Actually yes. I'm Sakura Haruno, from Konoha Magazine, I'm here for the interview," she retorted, every bit as venomously.  
Interview? He groaned frustratedly as he vaguely remembered agreeing to speak to some bloke from some magazine – the name of which he hadn't bothered to memorise. He's been against it, but his agent had insisted on the publicity. He could not, however, for the life of him remember any appointments with a girl.  
"I don't recall making any appointments with a pink-haired girl – trust me love, I'd remember if I had, hm."

He pushed open the door and turned to her, leaning casually in the door-frame.  
"Yeah well, Sai – my colleague – is sick so you'll have to do with me. And you're one to talk about hair you blond maniac."  
Deidara's eyebrow quirked upwards at the thinly veiled insult. She had guts, that he had to admit. Scanning her over again, he sighed, turning around and beckoning for her to step inside the corridor. The building was an old factory that had been converted into loft apartments, one of which he had rented for a workshop.  
"Alright then, Pinky. Follow me, yeah?" Leading her down the brick-walled corridor, he approached a heavy, metal sliding door and unlocked it. He slid inside, followed by the girl. Deidara instantly felt at ease, amidst his brushes and canvases, his clay sculptures and potter's wheels. The entire space was flooded by an earthy smell belonging to his numerous kinds of clay.  
"So, Pinky, hm," he turned to her, discarding his jacket and placing his bag on a hanger near the door, "What do you need to know?"  
"Stop calling me Pinky!"  
Annoyed, the girl took in the space around her, her eyes flitting from one sculpture to the next, somewhere between amazed and confused.  
"Nope," he grinned.  
Rolling her rather pretty eyes at him, she rummaged around in her abnormally large hand bag, producing a recording device. Deidara leaned onto his workbench, regarding her with smirk.  
"Um, would you mind if I recorded our conversation? It's quicker and easier than taking notes..." her voice drifted off and suddenly it seemed as if her confidence had vanished into thin air.  
"Whatever, hm."

He couldn't deny that her mercurial mood swings were intriguing – just as they were annoying. Maybe he could have a little fun with her, just to see how long it'd take for her to snap.  
She set up the recorder before she went over to a piece – a large, egg-shaped clay bird – and ran her fingers over the surface.  
"So tell me about your...art," she began, tentatively.  
Deidara's eyes followed and he discreetly grabbed a small ceramic bug from his workbench and, aiming for the wall, a few meters behind her, he threw it, a wicked gleam in his eye.  
It collided with the brick and a small explosion erupted upon contact – sending debris flying in a cloud of dust. A scream rung through the room, not deterring the artist from admiring his work.  
"Are you insane?!"  
His smirk widened into a full, ear-to-ear grin, taking the startled woman by surprise.  
"What the hell was that? Are you some kind of psychopath?"  
"True art is an explosion, hm!" he answered her initial question, still sporting a grin as though he hadn't just detonated a ball of exploding clay in a building in London, but simply as if he was amused.

**Sakura** was livid. She stared at the male in disbelief, eyes wide. He had got to be crazy. There was no other way.  
"That's not art, you mental person – that's terrorism!"  
Her heart was pounding in her chest and she tried to force her hand to stop shaking. He terrified her. One moment he was compliant, asking her to fire away with her interview – the next he was throwing...whatever the hell that was. It wasn't so much the explosion that scared her – it was the man, the mercurial temper of his.  
"Don't insult me," he retorted to her surprise, the exhilarated grin replaced by a disgusted scowl, "You have no appreciation for my art!"  
It almost sounded like an accusation and she frowned, insulted despite the correctness of his statement. She knew nothing about art – but she was damned sure that it wasn't supposed to explode.

"How is that art? The clay sculptures, I get – they're nice to look at. But that – that was just a bomb, no different from a terrorist act."  
She didn't understand, she truly didn't. Yet again – she really didn't care either way. She just wanted to go home and forget this ever happened. The interview had started horribly anyway. However, Sakura had a sneaking suspicion, that she wouldn't be able to forget, no matter how hard she tried and how many bottles she emptied. Some experiences had a way of burning themselves into her memory, and this was probably one of them.  
"Art – true art – is the fleeting beauty of that single moment of explosion, hm," Deidara explained, his eyes gazing reverently at the large bird-like sculpture the woman had referenced.  
"My art isn't in my sculptures. It's the moment in which they are destroyed, turned meaningful by detonation. It's beautiful, but intangible, ever-fleeting, hn."  
Sakura mulled over his words, narrowing her brows in thought. She wanted to understand – she did, she was too much of an academic not to– but she couldn't. It was too confusing – why spend so much time crafting these ornate figures only to blow them to smithereens?

"But why art then? If it's just the explosion, you're after, why not be a pyrotechnist? It makes no sense."  
She mused, the confusion evident on her features. Deidara's smirk vanished and he rubbed his neck in thought.  
"I'm not going to limit myself – and thus my art – to executing timed explosions. I'm an opportunist, chaotic by nature. I don't do well with restrictions, hm."  
He grabbed hold of some prepared clay and began kneading it in his hands under Sakura's watchful gaze. Only now did she notice the black ink embedded in his palms – two open mouths – tattooed starkly against his pale skin.  
Stepping closer she observed. His kneading motions were almost loving, careful as though he was moulding something fragile rather than a lump of clay.  
"How does it work," she asked, her natural curiosity awakened by the degree of her non-understanding.  
He didn't look up but continued to form the material, applying only minimal pressure, though she could still see the hint of a smile on his features.  
"Wouldn't you like to know, Pinky?"  
"Well yeah, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't, you crazy arsonist."  
He raised a brow and for a brief moment stopped  
"Arsonist? No one's called me that before," he smirked, almost as if he liked the sound of the epiphet, despite it's criminal nature. He then continued to knead, before answering.  
"I prepare the clay beforehand, using a chemical compound similar to nitroglycerin. All it takes is impact and then...boom, yeah!"  
He illustrated the explosion by throwing the ball of clay in the air like a tennis ball and making an exploding gesture with his hands.  
Sakura shrieked in horror at his explanation as he launched the clay upward.

**Deidara** grinned wickedly.  
So easy to frighten, he thought. So much fun to be had.  
Her eyes were wide with fear and she dropped onto the ground, curling up as she waited for the explosion. He watched, unmoving as she clenched her eyes shut, her heart pounding irregularly in fear. He could have wet himself right then and there, out of sheer amusement and pride in his little prank but instead burst out laughing. He caught the clay and gently placed it on the workbench before and doubled over in laughter.  
Tears welled up in his eyes as he had difficulty composing himself, hardly noticing the girl scrambling onto her feet.  
"You...hahaha...should have SEEN your face, yeah!"  
"Shannaro!"  
He was to absorbed in his laughter to see it coming. With a thud, the pink-haired girl's fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying onto his back.  
"You fucking moron! We could have died you sick son of a -"  
"Relax, for fuck's sake, hm..." he interrupted her rant as he sat on the floor, clutching his jaw, the amusement not totally eradicated from his face, "The compound only becomes instable once it's been heated to something over nine hundred degrees – when I've baked the clay to ceramic that is, hm."  
He remained on the floor, seating himself more comfortably and looked up to the girl who was still panting from the exertion, fist clenched in anger.  
"Don't get your panties in a twist, hm," he teased, propping up a knee and resting his arm on it.  
His keen eyes held no anger at her violent outburst – he had practically asked for it and still considered it full well worth her surprisingly tough right hook.  
Quite a temper that one, he thought, watching as she gradually calmed herself down enough to stop shaking.  
"You're fucking psychopath, you know that Deidara?"

**Sakura **huffed in anger, spitting insult after insult at the male. He was infuriating! There was no way that was legal. I mean you couldn't just throw explosives around like that for art's sake, could you?  
"I'm not the one physically abusing unsuspecting, poor artists, you know hn."  
What was it with that annoying grunt he added to every sentence? What was up with this guy? Sakura was no longer sure she wanted to know. The idea of just leaving straight away was appealing more and more to her sense of self-preservation.  
"Yeah well you deserved it," she retorted angrily, running a hand through her pink locks to straighten them. "You didn't have to bloody scare me to death. If you want me to leave, just tell me and I'll be out of your ridiculous hair in a heartbeat."  
Another grin – oh how that was starting to annoy her – broke loose on his undeniably handsome features and Sakura inadvertently blushed, her anger instantly forgotten. Did she have dirt on her face or why did he look at her so smugly? Self-consciously, she wiped over her face, hopefully catching whatever made him stare like that. When he continued, she turned away, refusing to look at him.  
"Stop staring, you're making me uncomfortable."  
A snort from behind her caused her to whirl around to face him again.  
"God, you're uptight, hm."  
"Am not," she gasped rather childishly which only caused him to grin wider. Talk about mercurial mood swings.  
"Are too," he laughed, getting to his feet. She watched him, a thousand different emotions leaving her confused.

It was extremely rare, that anyone got to her that way. She was a medical student – the epitome of professionalism - not some school girl. And yet, here she was, all sense of confidence thrown out the window by a mercurial male with a smug smile who kept messing with her head.  
Then again, it wasn't exactly an everyday thing for her to be in the same room with a psychopathic arsonist.  
He gestured towards the recorder – still running – pulling her from her thoughts.  
"Hey Pinky. I thought you were here to ask me questions – not mangle and insult me, you brute," he asked grinning cockily.  
That was it. Sakura snapped. Fuming in anger, she abandoned every shred of self-control.  
"Forget it," she spit, stalking over towards the door. She threw an angry look at the puzzled, yet amused artist. She wasn't going to let him screw with her head any longer – no matter how handsome he was or how much she needed the money from the article. Tsunade could shove it.  
In a matter of seconds, she slipped out of the workshop, slamming the door brutally. That sick son of a bitch could take his stupid clay and blow himself to bits for all she cared.

Sighing with frustration, Sakura ran a slender hand through her hair. It had been days – days! And still, all she couldn't quite shake the image of the blond male and his unbelievably smug face from her thoughts. She usually didn't get this hung up on events – though she had to admit that explosions and arsonists were bound to leave an impression on anyone.  
She remembered her room-mate's reaction when she'd arrived home, still fuming and spewing the vilest curses at the artist. Ino had basically gaped at the juicy insults to leave the usually prude – physically violent as she might be – woman's mouth.  
It had taken hours and countless bars of chocolate for Sakura to calm down enough to talk about the moron that had thrown her panties in such a bunch. No one had ever had that effect on her – and only through arrogant teasing no less. And once the pinkette had realised that she'd left the recorder at his workshop, all that was left of her composure had vanished.  
Now, three days later, she was calm – irritated, but calm. She would have to tell Tsunade sooner or later but she didn't look forward to that conversation at all. She despised failure – much more so than art. She had considered – many times – to retrieve her recording gear but dismissed the idea repeatedly. There was no way in hell she was going to face him ever again.  
The door-bell rung, pulling her from her thoughts.  
She opened the apartment door only to huff in disapproval when she was faced with thin air. She hung her head, cursing the neighbourhood kids for their annoying pranks when her eyes landed on a brown paper package and an envelope addressed to her.  
She picked it up and closed the door. She placed the mysterious package on the counter of her kitchen when Ino appeared next to her.  
"Hey forehead I – what's with the package?"  
Sakura shrugged.  
"No idea," she murmured, debating if she should open it. Her curiosity got the better of her and hesitantly, she ripped the paper and revealed a black box. Once she removed the lid, her expression darkened considerably. Inside, neatly packed and protected by scrunched up newspaper-articles, lay her recorder. On top, sat an inconspicuous ceramic bird, impossible not to recognise as Deidara's handiwork. She recoiled in fear until she spotted the small card attached to it with a red ribbon, saying "Harmless" in a surprisingly neat handwriting. She flipped the scrap of paper over to reveal a phone number.  
"Isn't that recorder yours," Ino deadpanned, earning a glare from Sakura.  
"Yeah." How dare he?  
"Didn't you leave that when you -"  
"Yeah." How did he know where she lived?  
"So how..."  
"I don't know, pig."  
Raising her hands defensively, Ino backed up a step.  
"Easy there forehead – I come in peace. The bird is cute though."  
Sakura rolled her eyes, inwardly cringing. On one hand she was happy that she didn't have to buy a new recorder. On the other she was annoyed at the sheer audacity of that idiot. She placed the envelope in the box and scooped it all up and disappeared into her room. She quickly broke the seal of the letter, curiosity yet again taking hold of her.

Damned be that man for making her doubt herself every second of every day.

"_Hey pinky, hm!"  
_  
She groaned. Seriously? He even wrote out that fricken' idiosyncrasy of his?

"_Not cool for you to just storm of like that, hm!  
I was having fun! And you totally forgot your stuff.  
Anyway – I had a blast! (Get it – blast? Ha, yeah!)  
Don't delete the tape just yet – have a listen first yeah?  
If you don't I'll have totally wasted my precious time, hm.  
The bird is harmless – just boring old ceramic, not even worthy of being called art!  
The number is my cell, give me a call if you decide to appreciate my art, hm!_

Deidara the crazy arsonist, yeah!

P.S. That right hook of yours...damn, hm!"

She reread the letter over and over, eyes constantly leaving the page and glancing at the clay bird. Gently, she placed it on her nightstand and gingerly pressed play on the recorder. Soon, her room was filled with his playful voice, explaining in detail his art as if answering questions in an interview. She could almost see him grinning at her in her head. A small, honest smile played on her lips as she listened.

Damn you, Deidara.


End file.
